


The Summit of Heaven

by irisbleufic



Series: Configured Stars [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alliances, Alternate Season/Series 04, Alternate Season/Series 05, Arkham Asylum, Asexual Character, Asexuality Spectrum, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dark Comedy, Deception, Demisexual Character, Demisexuality, Disability, Do not translate without permission or copy to another site/app, Ensemble Cast, F/F, Foreshadowing, Hiding, Humor, Interlude, Intersex Character, Intrigue, Jerome Valeska Lives, Look At Your Life Look At Your Choices, M/M, Mad Science, Neurodiversity, Nonbinary Character, Other, Plot Twists, Post-Apocalypse, Reveal, Sibling Rivalry, Siblings, Trans Character, Twins, Uneasy Allies, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22661167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: If something stirring amidst the trash cans hadn’t caught Hugo’s attention, he might have grown sincerely irked.The slight figure huddled there with its knees drawn up wore beaten steel-toed boots, black jeans worn thin at the knees, and several shabby layers of shirts beneath a black sweatshirt with the hood drawn up. There was a black scarf with silver stars wrapped around the lower portion of the malingerer’s face, and some of the stars were blotted out by dark stains. Its long hair was loose, unkempt waves escaping the hood.There was something unsettlingly familiar about the glazed hazel-blue eyes staring up at Hugo.“They kicked me out,” said the youth, haltingly. “I’ve worked there a couple years now, and…” He or she rubbed at his or her nose, as if it was beginning to run. “They think I’m contagious.”Disbelieving, Hugo sank to his knees before a phenomenon that should no longer even exist.“How extraordinary,” he breathed, pulling the creature’s bloody hand away from its face.
Relationships: 514A & Hugo Strange, 514A & Jerome Valeska, 514A/Jerome Valeska, Edward Nygma & Leslie Thompkins, Hugo Strange & Ecco (Gotham), Hugo Strange & Leslie Thompkins, Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Jonathan Crane & Jervis Tetch, Jonathan Crane & Jervis Tetch & Hugo Strange, Jonathan Crane & Jervis Tetch & Jerome Valeska, Oswald Cobblepot & Hugo Strange, Oswald Cobblepot & Olga (Gotham), Oswald Cobblepot & Victor Zsasz, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Series: Configured Stars [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1388944
Comments: 36
Kudos: 78





	1. Nearer to Ignorance

Jonathan hadn’t found it easy to coax Jervis out of hiding. He wanted to investigate the disturbance that Jeremiah Valeska, accompanied by the dregs of his late twin’s cultists, had incited some hours earlier. Under the cover of falling dusk, they crept into Stoker Cemetery.

The stir Jeremiah had caused outside the GCPD, just before delivering his evacuation warning to Harvey Bullock and blowing up the bell tower across the street, was less compelling than what had supposedly taken place at Jerome’s grave. An exhumation as audacious as the one that had been reported had made Jonathan shudder with terrified curiosity. Such a thrill.

If the city was to fall, then Jonathan would see to it that the macabre martyr’s remains were in his possession, and his only. He had borne Jerome grudging respect during their time in cahoots, and he was certain that grisly infamy was what Jerome would have wanted.

Jervis had seemed almost relieved when the first explosions rumbled from across the city. They hadn’t even made it as far as the site of Jerome’s reversed burial. Grabbing Jonathan’s arm with a gasp, Jervis had dragged them to the first place of shelter he could find.

They remained in the deserted mausoleum for a night and a day and a night, Jervis pacing while Jonathan brooded in the farthest corner he could abide. Near dusk on the second evening, Jonathan caught Jervis by the ankle, giving Jervis no choice but to sink beside him.

It wasn’t the first night they’d spent bitterly pensive in each other’s arms, and it wouldn’t be the last. Jonathan woke with a start, blinking at the scant sun afforded by the mausoleum’s skylight.

“Let’s away from this dreary place, my dear,” Jervis said, stretching, “and see what we can see.”

Curious, to find the graveyard so deserted, what when utter chaos ought to be setting in. Jonathan cast about warily as they walked, feeling exposed in the late-morning chill.

“Ah,” he said, pointing as he spotted a lone figure standing by Jerome’s open grave. “There.”

Seemingly on instinct, Jervis put himself between Jonathan and Hugo Strange with outstretched arms. Jonathan stared disdainfully at Strange while Jervis blathered about meaning no harm.

“How fortunate,” Strange said serenely, cutting Jervis’s prattle short. “I mean you none, either.”

Jonathan strode past Jervis and went to the foot of the grave, staring down in startled despair.

“Empty,” he said accusingly, rounding on Strange. “Do you know what’s become of the body?”

Strange nodded, indicating the far-off cemetery gates. “I imagine they’ve loaded their cargo by now.”

Jervis exhaled in nervous, unabashed relief. “I suppose there was never any hope of recovery.”

Strange gave Jervis an unhurried, owlish blink, and then looked to Jonathan. “That depends.”

“What depends?” Jonathan demanded impatiently, drawing the knife from his belt. “Hope?”

“No,” Strange said, his affect flat except for the faint whiff of disappointment. “Recovery.”

“There’s no recovering from death,” Jervis tittered, laughing shrilly. “Much though I wish—”

“Your beloved Alice has been ashes for too long,” Strange cut in, and then side-eyed Jonathan.

Wearily intrigued, Jonathan sheathed the sickle-curved blade. “If you have a proposal, make it.”

“Scarcely forty-eight hours, and Gotham’s already been carved into strongholds by various factions. Tell me, Mr. Tetch, Mr. Crane—where is _yours_?”

Jervis stared into the grave’s muddy depths. “Nowhere, Dr. Strange. We’ve been delayed.”

Strange returned his gaze to Jonathan. “What did you hope to accomplish in coming here?”

“To retrieve a symbol of terror so great that the rabble would cower at our feet,” Jonathan admitted. “Our former conspirator’s corpse would’ve inspired horror and worship by turns.”

“It seems someone else heard there was no time to re-commit him to the earth,” Strange said.

“He’d been buried only a few days,” Jervis said tautly. “Jeremiah most wisely made his play.”

Strange gave Jonathan another calculating look. “There’s no sense in abandoning science in these troubling times, is there? Such a shame my successors squandered what they had in you.”

Seething with dull fury, Jonathan drew his knife again. “Perhaps you heard they used me for a time.”

“Had I not been forced to become a fugitive,” Strange said sadly, “you might have had a place at my side, both of you. Such talents as yours in combination are…formidable.”

Irritably, Jonathan lowered his knife. There was something on offer, but he couldn’t suss it out.

“What my partner in madness and mayhem wishes to convey,” Jervis blurted, shifting from foot to foot, “is that we’re interested. Name the terms of whatever alliance you wish, and we’ll parley.”

Breaking into a slow, satisfied smile, Strange inclined his head in a sort of bow. “Ah, agreed.”

“Why should we care that you’ve already secured Arkham?” Jonathan countered. “Why do you think we have any desire to return to a place from which we escaped mere weeks ago? You presume too much. I wouldn’t have taken you for a fool.”

“Above all else, you’re survivors,” Strange replied. “Like you, I would prefer to keep breathing.”

Before Jervis could open his mouth again, Jonathan grabbed his wrist, startling him into silence.

“If we become allies, with Arkham as our fortress,” Jonathan demanded, “what’s your price?”

Strange just went on smiling with snake-like calm. “Nothing you wouldn’t willingly give.”

“I’ll serve you only if I can continue my research,” Jonathan said. “I want test subjects.”

Glancing back and forth between Jonathan and Strange, Jervis squeezed Jonathan’s hand.

“Rest assured I have need of both your talents,” Strange replied. “Now more than ever.”

Jonathan’s mind raced. Something portentous in Strange’s earlier phrasing went _click_.

“We’re to be your equals, not your subjects,” he insisted. “On that point, I trust we’re clear.”

Jervis nodded adamantly. “And if you don’t stay out of our heads, it’s you who’ll know fear.”

“On your erstwhile colleague’s grave, I swear,” Strange said solemnly. “Let’s get to work.”

This time, it was Jonathan who dragged Jervis along as Strange led the way.


	2. Nearer to Death

Even though it had been several days since Jervis and Jonathan joined Strange at Arkham, and nearly a week since the bridges blew, Jervis felt like he was in some fever-dream of Jonathan’s clever making. Not a terrifying one, though. Anything _but_.

It had never occurred to Jervis that Arkham, like any institution of its kind, had nice bits to counterbalance the wretched ones. The back half of the sprawling ground level, facing the river, had an ancient staff dining room with candelabras, fireplaces, and lavish furniture that he supposed might have been used for fundraisers and formal events. The kind of space Bruce Wayne’s presence tended to grace.

There were also living quarters, four tidy efficiency apartments renovated more to modern sensibilities than to the aesthetic of the former dining room. Strange had already taken up occupancy in one of them, and he had converted the dining room into a makeshift lab.

“Why not use the hospital wing upstairs?” Jonathan had asked bluntly when they first arrived. “It’s doubtless better-kitted than this.”

“This will suffice for all our purposes,” Strange had replied. “Recall that my tenure here was longer than any of my recent successors. My generator has limited reach, and the highest-security cell block is here at ground-level as well. I’ve sealed off everything else.”

“There’s still plenty of space to go around,” Jervis had said, eager to shut himself in one of the vacant apartments. “Seems we’re short of…guests, at least for now. Good night, my friends.”

An hour later, Jervis had started from fitful slumber at the sound of his apartment’s outer door opening. Jonathan had stolen into the bedroom, unnervingly silent, with his head uncovered.

“Whatever’s the matter?” Jervis had asked, relieved as his heart-rate began to slow, withdrawing his watch from his waistcoat before removing the garment itself. “Would you like me to help you nod off again, or…”

Jervis’s voice had died in his throat as Jonathan shed his boots and stalked over to join him on the bed. There had been no talk of what this was, not even the times they’d kissed before they slept.

“Unless you object,” Jonathan had said, resting his head against Jervis’s shoulder, “I’ll stay here.”

In the several days since, Strange had made no comment on their living arrangements. Jervis was relieved. Jonathan vanished during the day and into evening, shut in one of the administrative offices with Strange. 

Today, Jervis was feeling rather third-wheel-ish. He wandered into the deserted dining room, studying the pair of gurneys and banks of inscrutable equipment. There was a bloodstain on the floor; it looked fresher than not. He wondered who had died there, if Strange had killed them.

Jonathan came in and caught Jervis in the act of staring. He nodded at the stain. “Gilzean.”

“That former flunky of Penguin’s?” Jervis asked, satisfied when Jonathan nodded. “Hmmm.”

“Gentlemen, if you please,” Strange interjected, sweeping into the room. “We have a delivery.”

Jervis followed Jonathan’s example, remaining frozen as someone’s hulking, tastefully-dressed muscle led a team of four other minions into the room at Strange’s bidding. Each pair of minions carried a sheet-shrouded body, which Strange directed them to lay on the gurneys.

Also at Strange’s wordless instruction, the minions uncovered the bodies. To Strange’s left, Edward Nygma. To Strange’s right, Leslie Thompkins.

“Found ’em in what used to be Cherry’s place,” the lead muscle explained. “Been lyin’ there a for days, seems like. Who knows. One’s still breathin’, just barely. The other’s not. Lucky for them, Penguin’s got us doin’ sweeps of the city, block by block.”

Jervis watched Strange press his palm over Leslie’s heart. “This one’s always been a fighter.” Strange shifted his gaze to Edward, bending low over the ashen face. “And this one, too tenacious for his own good. Time of death seems recent, perhaps within twenty-four hours.” He tilted his head at the obvious stab-wounds in both subjects’ torsos. “They both held on in spite of apparent mutual ruin.”

“Penguin says fix ’em,” ordered the muscle, and walked out. The four subordinates followed.

Jervis continued to stare at the bodies—well, body and _almost_ body. He wondered what Strange was playing at, if there was any purpose to any of it. He could grasp the appeal if the departed had personal significance, but what could Strange possibly want with mere acquaintances?

“What should I do with you?” Strange mused to the prostrate pair, and then looked to Jonathan.

“If you’re still practicing reanimation,” Jonathan said, “that would be a logical place to start.”

“I’m flattered that you seem familiar with my Indian Hill side-project,” Strange said. “This time, of course, we don’t have generous funding from the Court of Owls. Just what’s here. But I don’t doubt improvisation’s our joint strong suit.”

“We can recover what’s down below,” Jervis suggested. “Do you still have tunnel access? Granted, all your other ducks seem to be in a row.”

“See, you’re more than just an agent of coercion,” Strange praised. “You’re an ideas man.”

“As long as I assist in execution thereof,” Jonathan said, “there’s no quarrel. Shall we start?”

“This will perforce be somewhat touch-and-go,” Strange admitted. “The Doctor, we merely need to stabilize,” he went on, setting a hand on Leslie’s shoulder. “The Riddler…well. Let’s just say he’ll be our trial-run for an exciting new technique I have in mind.”

Jervis suppressed his shiver this time. “Might you grace us with a preview of this…theory?”

“Our friend Edward,” Strange said, “hasn’t been in cryo-storage for a while, and he isn’t as fresh as he might be, either. Frozen subjects, I’ve reanimated. Immediately-acquired subjects, too.”

Jonathan cocked his head, bird-like. “What about subjects preserved by other methods?”

“Until Oswald waxed vengeful and trigger-happy,” Strange replied, “my replacement of whatever mysterious agent flowed in Butch Gilzean’s veins succeeded admirably. You’re swift on the up-take, Mr. Crane.”

Part of Jervis wanted to ask what in the world _that_ meant. The rest of him abstained.


	3. Nearer to God

Cradled warm in the earth—or, if not the earth, something sufficiently like it—Ivy slept.

She had desired to know the dreams of seeds ever since she had discovered her knack for cultivation. Keeping things alive, permitting them to thrive—at least until her father had been framed and killed for a crime he hadn’t committed. Death hadn’t waited long to take her mother, too.

Friends and mentors had failed and left her, one after another. Selina and Bruce, she wished she’d been able to hold onto. Barbara had sheltered her only briefly. Fish Mooney and her band of mutant misfits had provided temporary safety, and then transformed her.

She’d even wondered about Bruce’s look-alike, that peculiar boy with the haunted eyes who’d put all of them in peril several years back. It was in her nature to lose those already lost.

It was also in her nature to lose those she needed. Oswald was the latest. He’d been an ass, sure, but her pride had driven her from the finest mentor she’d known since Fish. She’d sought solace in alchemy, in substances with which she ought to have known better than to meddle.

Now, with her senses cocooned from all but the world’s quietest stirring, Ivy listened. 

Instinctively, her subconscious mind sought the vast, secret pathways that roots and tendrils wrought in the world. Thoughts of Selina spoke of separation, but not one so far she could not be reached. Separation by water, the subtlest of wistful yearning.

That twist of yearning led to thoughts of Bruce—whose distance was greater. _His_ separation from Gotham was salt-bitten, farther adrift than Selina across the river. The presence beside Bruce, as faint as it was, stung with venomous, split-tongued warning. 

Why her thoughts should turn to Jerome Valeska next made no sense. There was a trace of him below ground, stagnant, as if he had only lately succumbed to death. Whose loss this was, she couldn’t say.

Swift on the heels of Jerome’s remains came the lives of several who had intersected with his. Hugo Strange, she would kill if, on waking, she saw his face. Jonathan Crane, she pitied and wanted to save. Jervis Tetch, too, she would’ve slated for death—if not for the traces of Crane’s fear, which clung to him fiercer than a vine. She puzzled over his possessiveness.

These last three, she could sense, kept close orbit. She wondered what had driven them to each other. She wondered what they had to do with Jerome, twice-marked by death—or what Jerome had to do with Bruce, so far from Gotham that he might as well be dead, too.

 _We can change you_ , hissed the roots. _Grant you not just this sight, but beauty, too._

 _No_ , Ivy thought, yawning, curling more tightly in on herself. _Beauty, I already have_.

 _Then we might return your youth_ , the sap-shot veins pulsed around her. _Rebirth_.

 _I was reborn that day I crawled from the river_ , Ivy replied bitterly, _with my body so much older than it’s meant to seem. Let it be._

 _Even if your form remains_ , vowed the roots, _you will not awaken unchanged._

Startled into hazy wakefulness within her humid refuge, Ivy opened her eyes.

Three shadows loomed over her, cast in comforting green—but their presence was troubling.

“Alive,” said one of the shadows, in a low voice as threatening as it was soothing. “Crane?”

“Breathing,” agreed one of the others, a hollow, rasping drawl. “What is this around her?”

“I can’t help you find an answer,” replied the third, “but I vote we harvest before she can stir.”

 _Unless you rise_ , warned the whisper as it receded, _you are fruit for the slaughter._

Unthinking, Ivy let her body spasm, splitting the membrane. She felt invigorated and impossibly weak all at once. Her skin was damp where her torn and deteriorating clothing exposed it to the chilly air. She lashed out at the figure with its face covered.

Crane, in none other than his guise as Scarecrow, sprayed something noxious in Ivy’s face.

Coughing, Ivy rubbed her eyes, swung into a sitting position, and knocked Jervis Tetch’s feet out from under him. Before she could fully command her sprouting army, a snare caught her around the neck.

“Piano wire,” said Strange, sinking a needle in her neck, “is immune to your seeming charms.”

“I knew you were coming,” Ivy choked, feeling her eyelids grow heavy again. “I _saw_.”

“Then you shall have to tell us about this witchcraft of yours,” said Tetch, staggering to his feet with pocket watch in hand. “How long have you been here—months, or mere hours?”

Ivy’s head began to swim. Her weakened state made it impossible to resist Tetch’s commands.

“Took a bunch of drugs,” she replied, indicating the bottle-littered floor. “And I dunno, okay?”

“Ah, eloquence,” Strange deadpanned, loosening the snare. “For the record, share your name?”

“Do as the good doctor says,” Tetch singsonged, deepening her daze, “or I promise you’ll pay.”

“Ivy,” she dictated mechanically, trapped where she sat. “Ivy Pepper. I know _you_ , assholes.”

“Are those you hypnotize usually capable of expressing opinions?” Crane asked uncertainly.

“Far from it,” Tetch said unhappily, doubling down on his watch’s pace as it swung. “Ivy?”

“Yeah?” Ivy asked, summoning just enough residual presence of mind to spit at him. “What?”

“Tell us what you meant, darling,” Tetch coaxed, “when you said you knew we were coming.”

Ivy stared resentfully into those persuasive eyes. “I guess it’s kinda like…plants tell me stuff.”

“Do they also do what you say?” Strange added, emptying more of the syringe in her neck.

“Seems like it,” Ivy slurred, kicking uselessly at what was left of the membrane. “You saw me, like…start to make them attack you or whatever, because you got all douchey.”

“Her vocabulary leaves something to be desired,” Crane said snidely to Tetch. “Maybe fix it?”

“Fix your fucking _face_ ,” snarled Ivy, and, as Strange completed the injection, passed out.


	4. Nearer to Dust

The last Ecco had heard from Jeremiah was the phone-call he’d made to her a few hours before the bridges blew. That whole cutting-Gotham-off-from-civilization thing hadn’t been part of the original plan. Hell, she didn’t even know who had helped Jeremiah move the bombs from their strategic maze-locations around the city to the bridges.

In the weeks since everything had gone to shit, she’d retraced her steps around the city—from the bunker to Jerome’s bafflingly empty grave—replaying the conversation in her head.

_“Who’s this? Better not be a wrong number.”_

_“Ecco? It’s me. Listen, I need you to not—”_

_“I gotta tell ya, it’s a bit late for second thoughts.”_

_“I need you to_ stop _. Leave, don’t go through with it, but still meet me—”_

_“Jeez, spoil my fun. You really don’t want to me to kill the annoying Brit?”_

_“Yes, you_ heard _what I said. Let him run crying to Gordon when he wakes up, for all I care, just—do it! Could be advantageous.”_

_“Mr. J, you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me. Really?”_

_“Yes,_ really _. Was that so hard? Thank you.”_

Just like that, Jeremiah had hung up. What a dick. There were lots of reasons Ecco had never been attracted to guys, and that, literally and metaphorically, accounted for two of them.

Ecco had kept her appointed meeting with Jeremiah at Stoker. That was the last she’d _seen_ him. While Jeremiah had addressed the assembled crowd before toppling Jerome’s corpse back into its grave, he hadn’t _spoken_ to her again before leaving.

Ecco couldn’t help but worry. They’d been friends before he hired her, close ones. How the fuck were you supposed to tell your bestie you thought he was paranoid as fuck for building an underground bunker?

Ecco had a pretty good idea of what had caused Jeremiah to change his mind. Her suspicions had been confirmed when, about a week after Jeremiah’s bombs went off, she succeeded in picking up a GCPD radio transmission to the military on the mainland.

Bruce Wayne had refused to evacuate with his butler, gone rogue, and taken Jeremiah with him.

Try though she might to find them, Ecco had spent another two weeks coming up empty-handed. 

It was at that point, almost three weeks since Jeremiah had demolished the bridges, that Wayne Manor met the same fate. Telltale pyrotechnics leveled the mansion—with Bruce and Jeremiah inside. That’s what the GCPD transmissions said, anyway. Talk about an explosive honeymoon.

Ecco wasn’t too proud to acknowledge, at least to herself, that she’d spent several days in mourning. She’d raged and sobbed, cursing Jeremiah until her throat was raw. She couldn’t blame Bruce. Jeremiah should have known better than to fall in love with the young man his brother had vindictively picked out for him. Even in death, Jerome had won.

Somehow, the rock-bottom remainder of Jerome’s—and, by extension, Jeremiah’s—followers remained loyal to Ecco. She’d installed them in an abandoned church, and she hadn’t hesitated to use the twins’ names to invoke divinity. Out of spite, though, she’d shed her own.

Ditching your college nickname in favor of your actual first and middle names was badass. Especially if said names served your image better than some dumb mummer’s mask. Harley Quinn Eccles, formerly Ecco, was now just Harley Quinn—and that suited her fine.

Harley Quinn didn’t just have a church for a fortress and followers for an army. She had _power_.

That was probably why her religious institution was now under siege by three nut-jobs in gas masks. One of them had a gun, some tricked out semi-automatic that shot black-market bullets from Penguin’s factory.

The other two were armed with an apparatus that shot poison gas and an antique pocket watch.

Harley should’ve realized who she was dealing with well before the one with the machine gun pursued her to the bell tower and trapped her there.

The gas the freakishly gaunt one was spraying in people’s faces wasn’t so much poisoning Harley’s followers as scaring the shit out of them. The one with the pocket watch was hypnotizing them into killing each other.

Back against the wall of the bell tower, shoulder stinging where the assailant with the machine gun had clipped her, Harley dropped her empty pistol. Not ideal, resorting to the baseball bat strapped to her back, but she’d always been mean enough to play on the boys’ team.

The gunman pulled off his gas mask and gave Harley a reproachful look.

“Ms. Eccles? Wait—Ecco, if you still prefer? As in, the brilliant student who dropped out of my Psychology 201 section at GU?”

“Professor Strange?” Harley managed, so startled she lowered the bat. “What the _fuck_?”

“Tell me,” Strange sighed, “how did taking a leave of absence and going to work in that coffee shop work out? Did you honestly think that charming young architect would marry—”

“Engineer,” Harley scoffed, “and, uh, _nope_. J was the gayest thing ever to gay. Like me.”

“Was?” Strange asked, lowering his firearm a fraction. “Rumor has it he’s gone into hiding.”

“Hell no,” Harley replied, willing herself not to choke up. “You seriously didn’t hear?”

“Hear _what_?” Strange demanded testily, renewing his aim. “Share with the class.”

“When Wayne Manor went kaboom last week,” Harley said, “J was in there. Bruce, too.”

Their back-and-forth gave Scarecrow and Mad Hatter just enough time to join them in the high, cramped space. There was almost no residual noise from the lower levels of the church.

“That’s disappointing news,” said Crane, aiming his apparatus right at Harley. “Is it true?”

Tetch raised the pocket watch and set it slowly swinging. “Tell us or be forced, the choice—”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Harley sighed, sagging, utterly exhausted. “Yeah, it is. Just fuckin’ shoot.”

Strange lowered his gun, eyeing her with a brand of calculation that it turned out she still hated.

“Mr. Tetch, stand down. It won’t work. Mr. Crane, if you please? This one’s worth your while.”


	5. Need No Church

Lee opened her eyes, groggy sight taking over before her ears had time to register the familiar beep and hiss of medical equipment. She was in a hospital, or something like it—perhaps a private clinic, judging by the fashion in which the space was decorated.

With effort, Lee turned her head and stared at the gurney next to her. Ed was ashen, but breathing, fitted with more IV-lines than was normal.

What a delusional fool. She hadn’t even let the dalliance proceed past lackluster kisses and immediate proximity, stringing Ed along until he’d outlived his usefulness. After what he’d done to Kristen—and even to Oswald, Lee had to admit—he deserved this.

Lee could remember watching the bridges smolder and crumble. She could even remember stabbing Ed just before he stabbed her. Gotham had swiftly plunged into chaos. She wondered who had found her and Ed, and transported them to the mainland even after calamity hit. Surely no clinic of this sort remained out on the island Jeremiah had created.

Tipping her head back as far as she could, Lee registered how stiff her neck was. The ache in her abdomen, blade-deep and now taut with stitches, confirmed the injury Ed had delivered. She must have done him more damage than he’d done her. _Good_.

The ceiling of the opulent clinic was familiar. Lee had the impression of a city-wide medical practitioners’ meeting so dull that she’d taken to counting whorls in the gilded plaster. Arkham’s function room had a ceiling like that. She wondered if the same architect had…

Lee laughed. She and Ed hadn’t gone anywhere, except where they deserved to be for the madness they’d let get the better of them.

Someone rose from one of the armchairs across the room. It took forever for the figure to get close enough to bend over her.

“Hello, Dr. Thompkins,” said Hugo Strange, eternally calm and cordial. “How are you feeling?”

“Who…” Lee coughed until Strange brought a cup of water to her lips. She swallowed, bewildered. “Who found us and brought us here?”

“An anonymous Good Samaritan,” Strange replied. “I found you and Mr. Nygma on my doorstep. There was no note, let alone a forwarding address.”

 _Penguin_ , Leslie thought, keeping the guess to herself. If Oswald’s patrols spread across the city fast enough, then they might have had no-kill orders on a select few. For some reason, they’d always borne each other a level of mutual respect. She didn’t want to think it was solely for Jim’s sake, especially not since she’d found purpose in the Narrows.

As for why Oswald might spare Ed, _well_. No mystery there, no matter how adamantly Oswald had insisted he was over their entanglement.

“Were we both alive?” Lee said after a few moments of exhausted processing. “Or did you…”

“There will be no secrets between us,” Strange said levelly. “Dr. Thompkins, _you_ were alive, but just barely. Mr. Nygma…not so much.”

Lee felt perplexed for several seconds, until she remembered how a recently-thawed Jerome Valeska had risen from her autopsy table right around two and a half years ago. Strange and his staff at Indian Hill had been the ones to freeze Jerome almost immediately after his first death at the hands of Theo Galavan. Strange had made Jerome’s resurrection possible.

If Lee was honest, she was sorry to know Jerome was dead for good this time. Jeremiah was still out there, on the loose, and she didn’t think the chances were high that Bruce had stayed behind just to pursue him. Jerome was the only person who could’ve stopped his twin.

“A life-saving medical procedure for your thoughts, Doctor?” Strange said with deceptive levity.

Lee shrugged as best she could. “Jeremiah’s still out there. Hate to say it, but you saved us for no reason. We’re screwed, all of us. This is his playground now, his rules. He won’t rest until he’s taken down every one of our strongholds from the inside out. He’ll do it just to impress Bruce Wayne, who’s safe and sound in Europe with Alfred by now.”

“I can set your mind at ease,” Strange said candidly. “Alfred Pennyworth indeed escaped to the mainland, for what that’s worth to you. Bruce Wayne and Jeremiah Valeska, however, are dead.”

Head spinning, Lee closed her eyes. “I’m glad to hear—I mean, about Alfred, but— _how_?”

“It appears they succeeded at the sort of endeavor at which you and Mr. Nygma have failed.”

“Wait, you…” Lee coughed again, so Strange gave her another sip. “Do you mean they were rumored to be involved, or…they killed each other?”

“By all eyewitness accounts that my associates have been able to gather? Both,” Strange said.

Lee didn’t know which aspect to make him unpack first. “Eyewitnesses? Who saw what?”

“Barbara Kean and Tabitha Galavan saw them kiss just before they turned traitor on Ra’s al Ghul. Wisely, the Sirens then fled the scene with Penguin and his crew as the bridges fell. They left Bruce attending to a negligibly injured Jeremiah. We also have a source who tapped into the GCPD’s radio exchanges with the military— _so_ , the next reliable evidence we have, via Jim Gordon in communication with Mr. Pennyworth, is that both young men made their way to Wayne Manor. Shortly after, they died in an explosion that destroyed the estate. That brings you up to speed.”

“Not regarding your associates,” Lee pointed out, masking the depth of her shock. “Who are they?”

“I regret to say they’re sleeping in after having taken the late shift,” Strange replied mildly.

“You said there’d be no secrets,” Lee said. “I want to thank them for helping you save me.”

“Mr. Crane was instrumental to the process,” replied Strange. “Mr. Tetch, to a lesser degree.”

Lee tightened her jaw. Of course it was an Arkham administration-and-inmates reunion. Of _course_.

“I can’t help but notice you didn’t mention wanting to thank us for saving Mr. Nygma,” Strange said.


	6. Need No Bells

Rather than to a mingling of distant, familiar sounds, Edward woke to a distinct lack thereof.

Each place that he had called home in the past several years had framed the city’s clamor differently. His old apartment, in which he’d lived from his years at Gotham University through to his time spent working at the GCPD, had been in the thick of it. He’d never enjoyed being startled by police sirens and ambulances, but even those had an odd charm.

The Van Dahl Estate, by virtue of its positioning in the bucolic Palisades, had been just far enough removed from Gotham’s bustle and grind. He’d awakened almost every day to the sounds of wind and birdsong. An island within an island, the nearness of water no matter where you were in the Palisades led to a pervasive morning chill no matter the time of year.

 _An island within an island_. Edward flinched, shifting onto his side. His chest ached. If the intrusive thought had somehow induced the sensation, he’d need to pick it apart. Self-awareness still wasn’t his strong suit. Never had been.

Thoughts of Oswald, here in the silence behind Edward’s closed eyes, carried a din of their own. Oswald’s chatter, his sarcasm, his laughter. Likewise, his grief and his rage. He hated to admit that he missed the racket.

Thinking of Oswald sometimes led to thinking about Arkham, although Edward had hardly considered the cell in that dreadful place his home. The only time Arkham had ever been peaceful was the uneasy, liminal stretch from just past midnight to just before dawn.

It wasn’t so unlike what Edward was experiencing now, a dearth of noise and stagnant air.

 _An island within an island_ , he thought again, rolling until his curled hand pressed into his chest. The pain was unmistakable now, intensified by the accidental pressure. Knife-like, too close a reminder for comfort. He willfully blocked it out.

Edward gasped in shock, eyes flying open as he instinctively returned to lying flat on his back.

The ceiling overhead was a lackluster, damp-stained cream color, and the vent expelled no air. Just as well, Edward thought next, given that it was summer, although the last season he’d been locked in a room like this one had been considerably colder, and…

 _An island within an island_. For all his sins, the memory of what had led to the pain in his chest returned with merciless clarity. He wasn’t bleeding out, though. He could feel stitches beneath what felt like two thick layers of scratchy fabric.

The stitches, Edward could explain away if he assumed that Lee had survived and tended to the wound that she’d given him. The fact he was in a textbook Arkham cell, he could not, unless that was the only accessible treatment facility.

Struggling to sit up, Edward took stock of his surroundings. Was he hallucinating again?

The mattress was terrible, but the bed linens were far better than he remembered Arkham’s standard-issue fare being. The free-standing toilet and sink looked as if they had been scrubbed, and the room smelled faintly of industrial disinfectant. 

There was also a burgundy damask armchair in the far corner, which had obviously been hauled there from elsewhere. He recalled the print from several of the pieces in the function room, or perhaps one of the on-site efficiency apartments for administrators. There was even a tiny, battered side-table with a few dusty newspapers, magazines, and paperbacks stacked on it.

Taken together with the fact that the city’s hospitals and prisons had been evacuated during the countdown leading up to Jeremiah’s demolition of the bridges? None of this made any sense, least of all the relatively tasteful décor.

Edward lowered himself back against his mediocre pillow, breathing hard. He had no idea how much time had passed since he and Lee had stabbed each other. He had no idea why he was wearing Arkham standard-issue clothing, from underthings to the striped uniform. He had no…

There was the slimmest chance he hadn’t survived the ordeal, and that this was his afterlife.

“Hello?” Edward ventured, directing his question at the vent. His throat was raw with disuse.

When repetition of the inquiry at a polite volume drew no response, Edward started shouting. It took him a while to realize that another voice, muffled through who-knew-how-many walls, was shouting back. Feeling too weak to rise and go to his cell door, he shut up and listened.

“Jesus fuckin’ _Christ_!” raged the unidentified speaker, most likely a woman, judging by the timbre. “Would you keep quiet? Didn’t know I wasn’t the only person in here, except somebody in the next shithole over who I can hear pacin’, but won’t talk to me. Oh, an’ those four assholes runnin’ the joint like it’s their personal playground! You don’t wanna antagonize ’em, though. They’ll make you _see things_.”

“Possibly a stupid question,” Edward called as deferentially as he could, “but where are we?”

“Not that I saw any signs when they brought me in gassed-up and blindfolded, but I’m pretty sure this is Arkham,” said the woman. “Oh _shit_.”

Edward didn’t understand what the sudden profanity meant until he heard the echoing footfalls. Rather than approach the unseen speaker’s cell and castigate her, the new arrival paused right on the other side of Edward’s door. They knocked urgently on the window.

“Ed!” Lee hissed loudly, knocking again. “Get over here. Nobody told me you were awake.”

Struggling out of bed, Edward shuffled to the door with half his blankets in tow. “Traitor.”

“We didn’t think you were going to live!” Lee shot back. “Also, I’m trying to survive, so—”

“Dear oh dear,” lilted a voice that Edward unfortunately recognized. “What have we here?”

“Back off, Jervis,” Lee said over her shoulder. “The patient’s awake. Go tell Dr. Strange.”

“No need,” interjected Hugo Strange, appearing from behind Tetch. He waved at Edward.

“This has _got_ to be Hell,” Edward said, shuffling back to bed even when Lee screamed.


	7. Blood of Martyrs

Oswald couldn’t fathom that it had only been five weeks since Jeremiah Valeska had cut the city off from the mainland and absconded with Bruce Wayne. Whether accidentally or intentionally, he had killed himself and his lover scarcely a fortnight later.

Assuming reunification ever took place, a world without Bruce in it would prove fascinating indeed.

Not that Oswald begrudged those young men such recklessness. He refused to forget what he’d done in Edward’s name. What he continued to do, assuming the grisly favor he was doing Strange would yield results in the direction of Edward and Lee returning to the land of the living.

Edward, he still loved. He could admit that now. Lee, he’d always admired for being the only person who could put and _keep_ Jim in his place.

Whatever business Lee had decided to transact with Edward, Oswald hoped that the residuals, if worth something in Gotham’s changed landscape, would be waiting for her when she returned. The Narrows needed her more than ever—and Oswald needed her to restore order.

After breakfast, Oswald had his habitual briefing with Olga. She was the only person aside from Oswald and Zsasz who knew Martín’s location on the mainland. She received daily updates via text.

As Olga was leaving, one of Oswald’s security detail accompanied Zsasz up to Oswald’s desk. Zsasz gave the young woman an are-you-kidding-me look, and she fell back. Zsasz had been easy to buy back from his rogue status in the streets. What did hitmen need more than bullets?

Besides, Zsasz was the only person who could move safely around the city. He had taken to serving as a messenger between Oswald and Strange. It helped that he had leave to kill anyone he came across in the line of duty who looked even remotely threatening to Oswald’s territory.

“Great news,” Zsasz said. “Strange says he’s fine-tuned the technique. Time to bring back his goods.”

Oswald’s pulse quickened. Strange had been successful in restoring Edward and Lee after all.

“Fantastic,” Oswald said, returning Zsasz’s smug smile. “Unplug the freezer and load it up.”

Space down in the vault had permitted Oswald to put Strange’s bizarre cargo out of his mind. He had sufficient, continuously-generated power to keep the sensitive cryo-storage unit stable. Strange, it seemed, did not—otherwise, he would’ve kept it with him in the first place.

Surrendering the bodies of Lee and Ed as no sure success had seemed like a fair trade in spite of the risk of failure. Strange hadn’t failed where Butch was concerned, but then—Butch had been a living subject that required transformation, not a dead one requiring full restoration.

Why anyone in their right mind would want what was in that cryo-storage unit, Oswald had no idea. Bad enough he’d had to send manpower to Stoker to retrieve it for Strange in the first place. He’d paid out bonuses just to discourage his ranks from damaging it out of spite.

Oswald breathed easier once he knew the unit was on its way back to Arkham—where it had always belonged. Whatever bizarre, ongoing fascination Strange had with it was his business.

“Is no good you kept that _thing_ ,” Olga chided, “and for what? A man who will take second chance at life and run, never return?”

“I can’t control what Ed does, Olga,” Oswald replied irritably. “I never could. You know that better than anyone.”

“You cannot guarantee that doctor woman will go back to Narrows, either,” Olga cautioned. “You made foolish investment.”

“I guess hope springs eternal, even in this hellhole,” Oswald said sarcastically, offering her a bitter smile. “Better to have loved, lost, and made memories. My mother used to say that, too.”

“Idiot mother, idiot son,” Olga said, excusing herself. She was one of the only people who could speak to Oswald like that and live to tell it.

Alone again, Oswald imagined the worst that could happen. At the practical level, yes: Edward and Lee might flee to points unknown, alone in this hellscape that had once been Gotham. They might get themselves killed again. They might even kill each other again.

Oswald was hoping for a best-case scenario, one in which Edward would return with the delivery crew that Oswald had sent to Arkham.

It was also one in which Doc Thompkins, Queen of the Narrows, would resume her throne and restore what was one of the city’s most strategic territories even now. Senseless, chess-themed gang violence was a bit more than Oswald could take.

As for the absolute, unthinkable worst, that was a scenario in which he got neither of his previous wishes— _and_ Strange succeeded at whatever hellish experiment he had in mind for the item that had changed hands.

Oswald had been willing to take the gamble because, in his heart of hearts, he didn’t believe that would happen, and Strange was the fool. Bringing back the newly-dead or faultlessly-preserved was one thing, but the condition of what had gone in that freezer…

Well, it could have been _worse_. The Medical Examiner’s office had done its job tidily, and had kept something that was a wreck to begin with in about the same state of wreckage. Unless Strange had some kind of witchcraft at his disposal, Oswald didn’t have faith in his admittedly formidable scientific abilities. The subject’s life— _lives_ , even—were a closed book. 

The delivery crew didn’t return to Oswald’s fortress for several hours. When Zsasz finally re-entered Oswald’s office, he was alone. Pale-faced, tight-lipped, and furious was never a good look on him.

“Victor,” Oswald said, doing his best to keep his temper in check, “where is Edward?”

Zsasz didn’t look away, and he didn’t even flinch as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Ed and Lee didn’t make it. Lee almost did, I guess, which let Strange know he was barking up the right tree, but…nope. I’m sorry, boss. At least he isn’t gonna be able to do shit with that package, right?”


	8. Lives of Saints

Most nights, when Hugo took to roaming the ruined city in search of subjects, he took Tetch with him. Crane was best suited to remaining behind as a fearless, one-man security team, and he could attend to any of the existing subjects if there was a medical emergency.

Tetch didn’t like being separated from Crane, but he took pride in being Hugo’s preferred escort.

Their single defensible block of cells was nearly at full capacity. They only had room for one more. If Dr. Thompkins had kept things professional, then it might not have been necessary to have Tetch hypnotize her into submission. They’d put her in the cell across from Nygma.

As they strolled through the chilly twilight, Hugo marveled at how quiet it was in the Narrows.

“Where do you suppose we stand the highest chance of success?” he mused, eyeing Tetch.

“We’re nearing the club district,” Tetch said. “I once did shows here. Why don’t you pick?”

“The Sirens set such a sterling example, nightclub as ’round the clock refuge, that Celestial Garden and the Foxglove locked down and followed suit,” Hugo said. “Or at least that’s what Zsasz tells me. Those are our options within the next few blocks.”

“To enter Celestial Garden again, you couldn’t pay me,” Tetch said. “Not for love or money.”

“Wise, perhaps,” Hugo agreed. “The proprietress, Jeri, is saner than she is mad. Dangerous.”

“Foxglove draws the docile and genteel,” Tetch said excitedly. “That’s where we might find our last treasure, something _real_.”

“Then let’s investigate from both sides,” Hugo suggested, pointing in the direction of the alley onto which the Foxglove’s back doors opened. “I’ll take the exit, you take the entrance?”

Tetch nodded, heading toward the parallel front-street with his pocket watch at the ready.

Hugo stationed himself against the brick wall, between the club’s doors and a row of overflowing trash cans. He tipped the brim of his hat low and brought his scarf up over his mouth, watching as a pair of bouncers opened the doors and expelled several drunken patrons.

Before going back inside, one of the bouncers gave him a hard look. “In or out, you hear?”

Hugo turned out his coat pockets and calmly raised his hands. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Fine,” said the other bouncer, urging her compatriot inside. “It’s your funeral, freak.”

In the time it had taken for the exchange to happen, Hugo’s potential targets had vanished. 

If something stirring amidst the trash cans hadn’t caught Hugo’s attention, he might have grown sincerely irked.

The slight figure huddled there with its knees drawn up wore beaten steel-toed boots, black jeans worn thin at the knees, and several shabby layers of shirts beneath a black sweatshirt with the hood drawn up. There was a black scarf with silver stars wrapped around the lower portion of the malingerer’s face, and some of the stars were blotted out by dark stains. Its long hair was loose, unkempt waves escaping the hood.

There was something unsettlingly familiar about the glazed hazel-blue eyes staring up at Hugo.

“They kicked me out,” said the youth, haltingly. “I’ve worked there a couple years now, and…” He or she rubbed at his or her nose, as if it was beginning to run. “They think I’m contagious.”

Disbelieving, Hugo sank to his knees before a phenomenon that should no longer even exist. 

“How extraordinary,” he breathed, pulling the creature’s bloody hand away from its face.

“It stopped for a while,” accused 514A, throwing off Hugo’s hand. “I was getting better.”

Not deterred in the least, Hugo pressed the back of his other hand to 514A’s cheek. The skin there burned with fever, which explained the too-bright eyes and seeming disorientation.

“Stop that!” 514A hissed, slapping Hugo’s hand away from his face. “I don’t need help!”

“Five,” Hugo said gently, like he used to when 514A was a boy, “do you remember me?”

“Why would I?” retorted 514A, stubbornly wiping some more blood away from his nose.

“I was your doctor when you were younger,” Hugo told him. “I can treat this sickness.”

Unblinking for a handful of seconds, 514A sniffed. “And then I can have my job back?”

“Yes, Five,” Hugo said cajolingly, realizing Tetch was behind him. “My assistant knows the proprietress. He’ll have a word with her once you’re well.”

“I don’t like hospitals,” 514A muttered, staring intimidatingly up at Tetch. “Or laboratories.”

Convincing 514A that they were taking him to a comfortable private clinic was shockingly easy. Tetch didn’t even need to attempt hypnosis. When 514A nearly collapsed, Hugo carried him the remainder of the way to Arkham.

Crane was in the midst of topping off Ivy’s sedation when they finally strode into the function room. Between Ivy’s prostrate form on one gurney and the ashen, battered, shallowly-breathing one on the other, the transfusion was nearly complete.

“Once I’ve finished with this,” Crane said, “we can use her to tend to our newest patient.”

Hugo stared, rapt. The ragged, roughly-stitched autopsy incisions in Jerome Valeska’s abdomen had lost their puckered, bluish cast and become shiny reddish scars. Even the rest of his freckled skin, which had been on the cusp of deterioration, showed signs of circulation.

“Much as before,” Crane said, changing his gloves as he sized up 514A, “I have no explanation for why Miss Pepper’s biological material incites regeneration in plants, animals, and humans alike. This in combination with your techniques, Dr. Strange, is foolproof.”

“How many broken bones do you suppose he sustained in that fall?” Hugo asked with sheer, rhetorical delight. “How many irreparably damaged organs on account of the Medical Examiner’s crude dissections?”

“I don’t know,” Crane admitted, blandly indifferent. “I didn’t check. Now, the answer is none.”

Once Tetch got him settled in a chair, 514A blinked at the proceedings with delirious curiosity.

“Young man,” Hugo asked, “do you have any idea what a miracle you’ve just witnessed?”

“Not really,” 514A said, sagging as Crane started his IV, slipping into unconsciousness.


End file.
